“She and I will talk today. I promise,” Abby said, handing another towel to him.
“Good girl,” he said. “Good talk.” He took a long swallow of coffee and set the mug down on the kitchen island. Abby continued folding dishtowels. For a couple of minutes the only sound was Randall chewing.
The last d
ishtowel folded, Abby placed them all in their drawer, arranging them into tidy rows.
“Sugartitties, I didn’t know you had it in you to do such a good job around here,” Randall joked.
“I’m not so useless after all.”
“I’m gonna be late,” Randall said, stuffing the last Danish in his mouth and heading to his bathroom for a shower.
Abby changed into her bikini and dove into the pool so she’d be busy when Randall was leaving. Opening the patio door, saying goodbye – he wouldn’t bother with that unless he had some instructions or criticism for her.
Twenty minutes later she watched his Mercedes gliding down their driveway. Once he was out of view she climbed out and toweled off, and went inside to watch TV. A half hour later Rosa arrived.
“Good morning, Miss Abby,” she said.
“Hi Rosa. You know it’s fine to call me Abby. How are you today?”
“Good.”
“Sit down in here by me for a minute. Let’s talk. You can start your work later.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Of course I’m sure,” Abby said, waiting as Rosa settled in uncomfortably on the chair across from her.
“Is anything wrong?” Rosa asked her.
Abby shook her head. “How’s your grandson?”
“He’s very good. He turns seven next week.”
“Seven already! Is he still into Legos?”
“Is he ever.”
“How’s your daughter doing?”
“She’s good. They think they got it all this time.”
“That’s really wonderful news.”
“But they said that once before, and it came back.”
“I know. I remember.”
“A lot of people are praying.”
Abby nodded. “Me too,” she said. She wished it were true. She’d lost her religion a long, long time ago. Now she only found herself praying in rare moments of her own selfish desperation.
“And you’re good?” Rosa asked, tentatively.
Abby nodded. “Of course.”
The two women shared an awkward moment of silence.